Readers’ wildlife photos

May 27, 2026 • 8:15 am

Today we have some intertidal photos taken in California by UC Davis math professor Abby Thompson. Abby’s captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge her photos by clicking on them.

May is a great month on the California coast, with extreme high and low tides.   Here are some photos from the most recent, excellent, set:

Pollicipes polymerus (Gooseneck barnacles). I’ve shown these, and some relatives, several times before, but they’re amazing animals. In case you think it’s too many barnacles, Darwin spent eight years looking at barnacles.   “Originally planning a brief month-long study to establish his credentials in invertebrate zoology, he became deeply immersed and cataloged every known living and fossil species.”  (Google AI).  I’m not sure what the green is doing here, presumably just growing on top of the animals.   Some relatives of the nudibranchs stay green from what they eat, and retain bits with the ability to photosynthesize, most famously the adorable leaf sheep:.

Dendronotus venustus (nudibranch):

Paciocinebrina lurida (a snail):

Tonicella lokii (flame-lined chiton):

Genus Tegula (maybe) (another snail). There was a hermit crab living in the shell- I didn’t get a good photo of him.    I’m not sure the genus is correct, but the shell was so pretty I wanted to post it:

Nucella ostrina (Northern striped dogwinkle). About the common name—well, it has stripes.   And it’s a “winkle” (a word you have to love), or “little whelk”.  The dog part, I dunno.   They’re very common, and voracious. Some species of Nucella (not sure about this one) can be used to make a deep purple dye, which used to be hard to come by.  There’s a fun account of making the dye here, although I’m afraid many snails must have been sacrificed in the process:

Paradialychone ecaudata (worm):

Limpet, probably Lottia pelta (shield limpet). The little lacy edge is tentacles: “Pallial tentacles are tiny, sensory structures lining the mantle margin (pallium) of limpets. . . The tips and shafts of these tentacles are covered in dense tufts of non-motile cilia, which act as sensory receptors.” (Google AI):

Seagulls at sunset:

As always, thanks to experts on inaturalist for help with some IDs.   Camera is an Olympus TG-7.

Readers’ wildlife photos

May 12, 2026 • 8:15 am

Reader Ephraim Heller has sent some lovely photos of humpback whales, including their recently-discovered and amazing behavior of bubble-netting.  His captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.

Pacific herring (Clupea pallasii) spend most of the year dispersed across the open North Pacific, but each spring they converge on Sitka Sound to spawn. The 2026 spawning biomass was estimated at roughly 233,000 tons of mature herring. This attracts commercial fishermen, fishing birds, Steller sea lions, gray whales, humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae), and… me.

Here’s a humpback whale jumping for joy:

And here is Sitka Sound, with Mount Edgecumbe (a dormant volcano) in the background:

The scientific name of humpback whales is Megaptera novaeangliae, meaning “big-winged of New England,” due to their oversized pectoral flippers and first observations off of New England. These flippers increase their agility and enable their unique behavior: bubble-net feeding. Here are views of the baleen:

Bubble-net feeding is not a fixed behavioral pattern; it is a culturally transmitted skill, and not every humpback population practices it. The behavior has been documented extensively in Southeast Alaska, and a long-term study published in January 2026 in Proceedings of the Royal Society B tracked its spread in the Kitimat Fjord System of northern British Columbia over a 20-year period (2004–2023). Of 526 individually identified whales, roughly half were observed bubble-net feeding at least once, with more than 92% of those events occurring in a group context:

The behavior gained momentum after the 2014-2016 marine heat wave (“the blob”) that reduced prey availability across the northeastern Pacific. Researchers interpret this as whales adopting a more efficient foraging strategy in response to environmental stress, and transmitting that knowledge through their social networks:

The hunt begins when a group of humpbacks locates a school of small prey — herring, krill, or juvenile salmon. One whale, often referred to as the “bubble-blower,” dives beneath the school and begins exhaling air through its blowhole while swimming in a tightening upward spiral. The released air rises as a cylindrical curtain of bubbles. Fish do not readily cross this curtain, so as the spiral contracts, the school is compressed into an increasingly dense ball:

Meanwhile, one or more other whales in the group produce “food call” vocalizations: loud, frequency-modulated cries that vibrate the swim bladders of herring, causing them to clump even more tightly together. The calls also appear to serve a coordinating function among the whales themselves, signaling when to begin the final ascent. I could occasionally hear the food calls on the deck of my observation boat:

When the prey is sufficiently concentrated, the group orients below the net and lunges upward in near-unison, mouths agape, through the center of the bubble column. At the surface, each whale engulfs thousands of fish in a single pass, then strains the water out through its baleen plates as it rolls and closes its jaws. Groups involved in a single feeding event can range from two to around 16 individuals (according to the literature), each surfacing in roughly the same position relative to the others on every lunge. It’s hard to tell exactly how many bubble-netters are in this photo, but I think it is more than 16:

Quantitative work using drone footage and bio-logging tags has found that solitary humpbacks actively adjust the number of bubble rings, net diameter, and the spacing between individual bubbles from one dive to the next. This level of fine-tuning (“manufacturing” a tool and modifying it based on conditions) contributed to a 2024 study’s argument that bubble nets qualify as tools under standard definitions. On average, a well-constructed net can increase the prey density available in a single lunge by roughly sevenfold, without measurably increasing the whale’s energetic expenditure:

No other baleen whale species does this, and biomechanics research suggests morphology is the reason. A 2025 study comparing turning performance across seven mysticete species found that bubble-net feeding humpbacks achieved centripetal accelerations that exceeded the upper limits recorded in comparable maneuvers by all six other species tested. The humpback’s large pectoral flippers generate substantial lift, which helps the animal bank inward tightly and decrease its turning radius enough to close a spiral into a true net. Other whale species, even if they could theoretically attempt the maneuver, would likely burn too much energy to make the strategy worthwhile:

My next post will include photos of other animals that come to Sitka sound to enjoy the herring feast.

Readers’ wildlife photos and video

April 26, 2026 • 8:15 am

I now have three batches plus some singletons, and so we’ll have semi-regular photos for a while, at least.  Today’s batch of tidal invertebrate photos, and one video, comes from math professor Abby Thompson at UC Davis. Abby’s captions are indented, and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them. The video is also hers.

April tidepools, and a mystery den.

Starting with a video of a Ctenophore, Pleurobrachia bachei (Pacific sea gooseberry, a ‘comb jelly’). All appearances to the contrary, this is in a different phylum (Ctenophora) from the “jellyfish” of my earlier post, which are in the phylum Cnidaria.   The flashing lights are the cilia in the “combs” that run down the sides, used for locomotion.  This one wasn’t moving very much, but I was surprised it was moving at all.   I picked it up off the sand quite a way above the water line, and dumped it into a shallow pool to take a photo.    It seemed to be recovering pretty well from what I thought was death.   It’s about the size of a walnut.

Sea urchin “test”, or internal skeleton. Probably Strongylocentrotus purpuratus:

Ophiopholis aculeata (daisy brittle star):

Bispira pacifica (feather duster worm):

Close up of ‘feathers’ of pacifica:

Genus Eupentacta (sea cucumber):

Phoronis ijimai (tentative- the white things). This is a species of horseshoe worm, which lives in tubes.   I haven’t seen this species before, and it was in an awkward spot, so it was hard to get a good photo.   The photo below that is from a few years ago of a worm from the same family, so you can see their general shape better:

Phoronopsis harmeri (from July 2021) (same family):

Anthopleura artemisia (moonglow anemone):

And a few nudibranchs:

Triopha maculata (nudibranch):

Tenellia laguna (nudibranch):

Acanthodoris rhodoceras (nudibranch):

Rostanga pulchra (nudibranch):

Lastly the mystery den. Our entire front yard seems to have been tunneled under, with at least three major entrances- this pair of holes is just one of them.  The holes are large, about 10 inches across.  We’re dreaming of badgers, would be very happy with foxes, and really hoping it’s not skunks (I love skunks, but not in the front yard).  A wildlife cam is the next purchase:

Camera: Olympus TG-7.   Thanks as usual to some experts on inaturalist.

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 29, 2026 • 8:15 am

Abby Thompson of UC Davis has sent in some pictures of California tidepool organisms, as well as a video. Abby’s captions are indented and you can enlarge her photos by clicking on them.

Late January-early March tidepools, plus an octopus.

Bryozoans:

Lepas anatifera (pelagic gooseneck barnacle).   Usually found clinging to something drifting around in the open ocean (the “pelagic” part of their name), these were on a large log washed up on shore:

Intertidal zones, illustrated.    A well-placed vertical rock face, like this one, exhibits the idea of the different intertidal “zones”, each of which has its own specific collection of inhabitants.  You can see mussels and barnacles clustered at the top (in the “high intertidal”), exposed to the air as soon as the tide goes out even a little. There are smaller colonial anemones next, beneath them the orange and purple ochre stars, and below those, arriving at the low intertidal level, some giant green anemones.   If you peer into the water under the open giant green anemone, you’ll see a crab, probably a rock crab.   There’s some back and forth- there are a few giant green anemones pretty high up in this photo- but the general idea holds.

This reflects each animal’s differing tolerance for specific conditions- time out of the water as the tide goes out, harshness of wave actions, etc.      The nudibranchs (next few pictures) are usually in the very low intertidal:

Orienthella piunca (nudibranch):

Hermissenda opalescens (nudibranch):

Doto amyra (nudibranch).  Visible through the translucent skin on its back are lobules of the “ovotestis” (thanks inaturalist expert! ).   From google AI: “Ovotestes in nudibranchs are specialized, hermaphroditic reproductive glands that produce both male (sperm) and female (oocytes/eggs) gametes simultaneously”:

More eggs, this time from a snail in the genus Amphissa. I like the pointy egg casings, like wizards’ hats:

And here’s an adult of the genus- almost certainly Amphissa versicolor, but it’s an unusual color (they’re usually shades of orange or brown/tan):

In honor of Ghost the octopus, and also because I’ve finally figured out how to include videos, below is a clip from 2021 of an East Pacific red octopus (Octopus rubescens), cruising around the rocks (out of the water!) at low tide.  I’ve only seen one twice, probably because they’re too cleverly camouflaged (possibly just too clever) for me to spot.    This guy was about the size of a human hand, a miniature compared to the 50 pound Ghost.

Point Reyes peninsula at sunset:

Camera: Olympus TG-7.

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 23, 2026 • 8:15 am

Send ’em in if you got ’em.  The photo situation is dire.

But today we have whale photos by reader Ephriam Heller. His captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge his photos by clicking on them.

The best whale watching I have experienced is observing gray whales (Eschrichtius robustus) in the San Ignacio Lagoon on the Pacific coast of the Baja peninsula in Mexico. These whales are curious and “friendly,” often swimming up to boats to observe their occupants and even allowing themselves to be touched. Here is an example of an interaction between two species that each appear to exhibit curiosity and intelligence:

This is what a gray whale looks like (Image courtesy of International Whaling Commission):

They engage in numerous photogenic behaviors, such as rolling, riding the surf, waving their flippers and flukes in the air, and spyhopping to observe their surroundings.

The gray whale has longitudinal double blowholes. People claim that they form a heart shape, but think a heart with this shape needs immediate treatment:

When the sunlight hits their spray just right, one sees “rainblows”:

The gray whale has the most parasites of any whale, carrying up to 180 kg. At birth, babies have no barnacles or sea lice, but quickly acquire them from their mothers. The older the whale, the more barnacles and lice they collect. The whales rub along the seabed and piers to try to rid themselves of the parasites.

The whales carry one species of barnacle and four species of whale lice. The barnacles are Cryptolepas rhachianecti (whale barnacles) which are specific to gray whale hosts (i.e., they rarely occur on any other species), and they die when the whale dies.

There are four species of “whale lice,” which are not true lice (which are insects) but are amphipods in family Cyamidae: Cyamus scammony (the most common), Cyamus kessleri, and Cyamus eschrichtii are all found only on gray whales. Cyamus ceti is found on gray and bowhead whales. These cause minor irritation to healthy whales. Researchers view cyamid coverage and distribution (e.g., heavy clusters near blowhole, mouthline, genital slit) as indicators of stress, nutritional status, and chronic skin disease rather than as a primary cause of these problems.

There are two populations. The larger Eastern North Pacific population migrates along the continental coast between its breeding grounds in Baja, Mexico and its feeding grounds in Alaska. The small Western North Pacific population migrates along the Pacific coast of Asia. Gray whales hold the record for the longest migration of any mammal, with typical round-trip distances of about 20,000 km annually (although this isn’t close to the 70,000 km migration of the arctic tern).

Whales fall into two suborders: baleen (Mysticeti) and toothed (Odontoceti). Gray whales are in Mysticeti and use their baleen to feed on amphipods and plankton on the seafloor. During the six month summer feeding season, adults consume over 1 ton of food per day. They then fast for the remainder of the year, including the migration and winter birthing / breeding season. They exhibit “handedness,” in that most gray whales feed by scooping up sediments from the seafloor with the right side of their heads, resulting in their right sides having fewer adhering barnacles and sea lice.

They live up to ~70 years. Biggs transient killer whales (orcas) kill up to 35% of the calf population annually. Based on scarring, researchers speculate that almost every gray whale has been attacked by orcas. Most attacks occur as the young calves migrate north through Monterey Bay, California and Unimak Pass, Alaska.

The Eastern North Pacific population dropped to ~1,000 individuals around 1885 due to whaling, but has since recovered to ~27,000 in 2015-2016. The Western North Pacific population is tiny, comprising just a few hundred individuals. North Atlantic populations were extirpated (perhaps by whaling at the end of the medieval warm period) on the European coast in the 12th to 14th centuries, and on the American and African Atlantic coasts around the late 17th to early 18th centuries. Remains of gray whales from the time of the Roman empire have been found in the Mediterranean Sea, and they are still rarely seen there in modern times.

The gray whale has a dark slate-gray color and is covered by characteristic gray-white patterns, which are scars left by parasites that drop off in its cold feeding grounds. Individuals can be identified by their pigmentation patterns and their scars. I got this great photo of a whale’s tail; but it was just a fluke:

In case you are the kind of person who is interested in this sort of thing, this is what it looks like when whales mate:

Anyone with a younger brother will recognize this as the “head butt” greeting, a conserved behavior across all mammal species:

And this is the view when you saddle up a gray whale (I use a western saddle):

The eyes of gray whales are unlike the eyes of any other mammal I have seen, with what appear to be tangled filaments. My AI friend assures me that this is not the case and that they do not have any “extra” organs in their eyes: “The ‘tangled filaments’ you’re seeing are structures in the gray whale’s iris and surrounding tissues that become visible because the eye is small, very dark, and strongly three‑dimensional, so you are effectively looking across folded, ridged iris and ciliary tissues rather than through a flat, open pupil as in most mammals you see up close.”

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 13, 2026 • 8:15 am

Abby Thompson, a UC Davis mathematician, is back with more photos (and a video!) from the intertidal of northern California. Abby’s captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge her photos by clicking on them.

Jellyfish!

I thought I’d throw some jellyfish into the lull between the great winter tides and the great summer ones.

The reproductive cycles of the tidepool creatures are wildly varied, with behaviors ranging from maternal (see Epiactis prolifera from my last post), chancy (see mussels), through incessant (see nudibranchs).   But for sheer baroque complication, I vote for the jellyfish.    Many who stroll on a beach will see the quivering gelatinous masses of jellyfish stranded by the tide, and the less fortunate will have encountered their stinging tentacles while in the water.  This describes, a little, how they get there.

There are several jellyfish species common on the Northern California beaches; here are some of them:

Aurelia labiata (Greater Moon Jelly):

Chrysaora fuscescens (Pacific sea nettle):

Chrysaora colorata (purple-striped sea nettle) These are big, about a foot across:

Another Chrysaora colorata (handsome creatures):

Genus Aequorea (crystal jelly):

Polyorchis haplus:

Scrippsia pacifica (giant bell jelly):

The Chrysaoras and Aurelia labiata are in the class Scyphozoa; the rest are in the class Hydrozoa.

For all of these, males and females get together in the same vicinity, and release eggs and sperm (see “chancy” above), which form little “planulae”.    Then things get complicated.     Because (usually) the planulae settle down and attach themselves to something, and become polyps.  Like these tiny things:

Genus Sarsia:

Hydrocoryne bodegensis:

But how do they get from here (e.g. something like Sarsia) to there (e.g. something like Polyorchis haplus)?   Well they don’t, always, and sometimes they don’t get from there to here, either, but here’s an illustration of the process when it goes through a “typical” complete cycle:

And in fact if you look closely at that photo of H. bodegensis, you can see a little medusa just budding off, circled in the photo below:

Here’s a video of a set of newly-formed “baby jellyfish” (they look excited) which swam into my microscope view.    I didn’t know what I was seeing, so don’t have a photo of the polyp from which they likely emerged.   This means I have no idea of the genus (or even the class- if these are Scyphozoa then these are really ephyrae which will turn into medusae).

There seem to be many species for which the complete reproductive  process is not documented –  for example, if you search for the polyp stage of Polyorchis haplus, the answer is that we don’t know what it is, nor where it can be found.

 

A final oddity of this elaborate reproductive process is the existence of the so-called “immortal” jellyfish. (not found in the cold waters of Northern California).  If damaged at the medusa phase, this one can revert to its earlier (genetically identical) polyp phase- and so on ad infinitum, apparently.  As though, when things go wrong in your life, you could go back to your childhood and try again.

I’m grateful for help with IDs from experts on inaturalist and elsewhere.    All mistakes are mine.

Readers’ wildlife photos

March 12, 2026 • 8:15 am

And we have more photos. Today’s come from Jan Malik, documenting the birds of Barnegut Inlet in New Jersey. Jan’s captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.

My previous batch from the Barnegat Inlet covered geese and ducks. It’s time for some of the other coastal birds now.

Immature Double-crested Cormorant (Nannopterum auritum). In contrast to diving ducks, these birds have no buoyancy problem and submerge easily.

Common Loon (Gavia immer). Judging by the slightly pinkish gape at the base of its bill and the fuzzy transition between black and white, this is an immature bird that stays on coastal bay waters before maturing and returning to quiet inland lakes to breed:

Another loon, this one with a mangled crustacean that I suspect is an Atlantic blue crab (Callinectes sapidus). I wonder if a diving loon preferentially picks a freshly molted crab the way we select ripe fruit:

Not a great loon picture, but we can see enough of the prey’s fins to identify the fish as an Oyster Toadfish (Opsanus tau), a species in which males provide parental care to eggs and young. The fish was big and bony, so the loon struggled a bit to swallow it. That fish would be a terrible choice for performing the Fish Slapping Dance. For the loon, it would be preferable to swallow its catch underwater, because at the surface it may be stolen by gulls, who know where a bird has dived and circle above waiting for it to reappear:

A couple of Savannah Sparrows were hopping on the rocks. I suspect that this pale bird with very little yellow in its brow is an Ipswich Sparrow, a subspecies (Passerculus sandwichensis princeps) that breeds on the sand spit of Sable Island off Nova Scotia:

Three species of shorebirds are common in winter at the Barnegat Inlet, all quite similar at first glance in size and plumage, but each occupying a different ecological niche. First, the Ruddy Turnstones (Arenaria interpres), here trying to sleep—probably using only one half of their brain to watch for predators, in unihemispheric slow-wave sleep. Their bills are short, stubby, and slightly upturned, adapted for—just as their name suggests—turning over beach debris to search for invertebrates hiding underneath:

Next, the Dunlins (Calidris alpina). They feed, roost, and migrate in large flocks. Unlike Turnstones, their bills are long, slender, and sensitive, used for probing tidal mudflats for worms and crustaceans:

Last, there are the Purple Sandpipers (Calidris maritima). Their bills are more “general purpose” than those of the other two species. Their covert feathers do show a purple sheen in the right light:

Purple Sandpipers and Dunlins are not very afraid of people on their wintering grounds; they may rest a few meters from a quiet observer. But the slightest hint of danger can trigger the whole flock to take flight in an instant—only to land nearby a moment later:

Purple Sandpipers are adapted to rocky coasts, where they feed on mussels exposed during low tides and on other invertebrates. The undersides of their feet must have a texture that allows them to walk sure‑footed on slime‑covered, slippery rocks:

 They have also evolved Silly Walks:

A distant Harbor Seal (Phoca vitulina), a frequent sight in the Inlet, always seems to look at the jetty with disappointment when it notices that this prime haul‑out spot is occupied by people:

As I was about to leave, the colors of the sunset behind a distant house caught my attention, so I took a picture, thinking little of it. Only back home—rather like the character in Antonioni’s Blowup—did I realize that the picture hides a predator the sleeping shorebirds must be on guard against. To be honest, I can’t be sure this was a flesh‑and‑blood predator and not one made of polystyrene, but the impression remains: